Chapter Seven
by SuperCollider
Summary: In the wake of Loki's hijacking, the war between the Federation and United States changes drastically. This is true for Logan and Hesh Walker, as well, who are separated thanks to the work of Gabriel Rorke. Logan, forced to lead the Federation version of the Ghosts, called Chapter Seven, has to cope with doing his duty as a reborn soldier, or helping his brother in the Ghosts.
1. The Aftermath

**Hello everyone! I'm glad to be with you, and I'm pleased to announce the beginning of my new story, Chapter Seven. This is my first fan fiction, and I'm really excited to expose it to the public like so.**

**Some background before we begin. This takes place directly after the Ghosts story-line, and continues the story of Logan, Hesh, and the Federation as the war between the United States and the Federation takes a new path after the hijacking of the Loki satellite. Just like a traditional Call of Duty game, the name of the mission (chapter) will be shown in the format below, and the point of view will always be first-person, even if it swaps between a numerous amount of characters.**

**I'm really looking forward to finally showing my work to people, and I would really like it if I got some feedback. I've written a lot, but never actually exposed my work except to my really close friends. A wider audience will hopefully help me improve my writing. So please review, it will help me get to know you all better, and I will include answers to your reviews in the next chapter as I hope to get more intertwined in the community.**

**That's really it, but here is the first chapter of Chapter Seven. I hope you all enjoy it!**

_The Aftermath  
__USS Argo, 45 Miles Southwest of San Francisco  
__July 8__th__, 18:37:19  
__David 'Hesh' Walker_

I don't really remember how liquor is supposed to taste. It's been about three years since I've had anything heavier than cheap beers that were made before the ODIN strikes. The scotch that Merrick gives me is strong, and tastes surprisingly bitter. I wince, the taste making me recoil, and I set the glass back down on the metal table.

"Don't think that's gonna help," I mumble, pushing the glass back to Merrick. He sits at the opposite side of the metal table, tapping his fingers against the table's surface. From what I can tell, he can feel the solemn mood as well as I do.

"Take it easy, kid," he says, picking up the glass himself and draining the small amount left. That's how it's been for the last couple days. Everyone's calling me kid, like I'm some innocent little boy he's just been thrust into my situation. It makes me feel insignificant, and it makes me angry that they're treating me like that considering my experience.

Then again, I'm kind of asking for it. After my dad died, I didn't grieve. I channeled all of my anger into finishing the mission, killing Rorke. I didn't have time to grieve, though. As soon as he died, I was back in combat, escaping Vegas with Merrick and Keegan, with Logan helping Riley out after he got shot in the leg.

I put my head in my hands. There are two things nagging at my mind. Riley didn't need a cast at first, but when the _Liberator _got attacked, he aggravated the leg that he had hurt in Vegas escaping into a chopper that flew out of the area. There were only a few choppers that left for the _Argo_ instead of moving in for the assault on the satellite base. Riley is in the room with Merrick and I right now, playing with a chew toy on the floor to my right.

Riley, at least, is safe and with me right now. Logan, though, God only knows where he is. I still can't believe how I lost him back at the beach, watching him being pulled away by Rorke, not able to do a thing. I couldn't even see the look on my brother's face, since he had still been wearing his mask. The same one that my father had worn.

For whatever reason, Rorke seemed to have always liked Logan. When we were in Vegas when he killed Dad, he chose that he would spare Logan even though he was the one who had almost ruined his plan. He liked the fire in him or something, and now he was going to use Logan the same way the Federation had used him.

If there's any pattern, then Logan is probably going through the same hell that Rorke went through twelve years ago. The same hell that changed him from the most feared Ghost of all to the man that hunts them. That's what scares me the most about Logan. I think I would have been able to handle it better if he actually were dead. In that case he wouldn't be in pain, he wouldn't be my enemy.

My fingers dig into my skull. He's not my enemy yet, Hesh. For all you know, he's escaped, he's still your brother, and he's making his way home…

"Liquor usually helps me with wounds," Merrick says, staring at me with obvious concern. "Physical, though. It doesn't help at all when I'm thinking about something. How about you, kid? Is the gunshot getting any better?"

Now that he mentions it, the scotch has numbed the pain in my chest a little bit. The doctors said that had the bullet hit on the other side of my chest, symmetrically at least, I would have been gone before Logan brought me to the shore. He's a good shot, even if he didn't kill Rorke, solely for the fact that he didn't take out his own brother.

Mentally, though, I can relate to Merrick. The constant throbbing of Logan being gone only worsens with the liquor, though, and I put my hands back on the table. I hate myself for not doing anything, for lying there with my gunshot wound, watching Rorke break Logan's arm, knocking me back to the ground like a ragdoll, as if I were nothing. The worst part of it, though, is what Rorke said. "There ain't gonna be any Ghosts," he had told my brother, wearing a sinister sneer. "We're gonna hunt them together."

I stand from my seat, feeling a little wobbly. I didn't even have one glass of the scotch, but I still am feeling the effects of it. My hands are shaking, but I think that that is more from my fears about Logan right now than the alcohol.

"Hey Riley," I say, patting the dog on the head. "How're you doing, boy?"

He makes an odd sound that almost sounds like a cat purring. The cast is merely casting tape wrapped around a brace, which means that he can still walk around by himself, however limited in speed. I assume that this means 'good' in dog, so I begin making my way to the door.

"Where are you going, Hesh?" Merrick questions as I put my hand on the door handle. He stands up and walks over to me.

"I was gonna go up to the deck, get some fresh air," I respond, opening the door to the tight metal corridor. The room that we had been in was a conference room that was effectively serving as the common area for Merrick and I. We were the only Ghosts left on the battleship. Others, like Keegan, had already made it back to the San Francisco base. That was where the _Argo_ was headed right now, to bring us back to land.

We hadn't had much time to find Logan, and he had been assumed to have been evacuated by Federation forces. The remaining United States forces had been evacuated on the _Argo_ or one of the other four battleships that had been offshore. Unfortunately, our last carrier had been the _Liberator_, which had been destroyed in the minutes leading up to the attack on the satellite base. Not everyone had been evacuated. They were holding out, but who knew how long they would last until the five battleships that were dropping off soldiers and vehicles back at San Francisco were able to head back to the South America.

The corridors of the battleship were lined with wiring and pipes and pressure valves, all of them instrumental to the _Argo_ being operational. As we walk towards the metal stairs that lead us to the deck of the battleship, I can hear the hissing of gas moving through the pipes. We walk at a slower pace than normal because of Riley, who limps behind Merrick. The German Shepherd obviously is determined to get healthy, showing it by his determination to walk around instead of being carried.

The stairs eventually do empty out onto the deck, which is unfortunately lacking sunlight. Clouds hang over the sky, gray and imposing, while mist flows through the cold air. The mist feels good on my face, but I was hoping for some more natural warmth. We're definitely in the Bay Area now, with the cold front passing over, even in July. Merrick follows me up the stairs, and we're suddenly standing on the second level of the deck. The _Argo_ is built with three, stair step style levels that converge on the center of the ship, which is headed by large, metal smokestacks. We're on the second level on the front end of the ship, so we can especially feel the misty breeze as the ship pushes towards San Francisco.

"Doesn't exactly remind you of Santa Monica, right?" Merrick says, now leading the way towards a railing that hangs over the ship.

I shake my head in reply. There was no way that Los Angeles would have been hit this hard by a cold front in July. There was a huge difference between Northern and Southern California, apparently, at least in weather. Santa Monica was still recovering from the failed Federation invasion of it from before, so now San Francisco had become the full time American naval base on the west coast.

Riley walks up to the railing as well, sticking his tongue out in the breeze as if he were riding in a car. I put my hands on the railing and stick my head over, looking at the churning waters below. The white water that splashes up is the opposite of the dark, black water that dominates the sea.

"Hey, if it isn't Hesh and Merrick!" someone says from behind us, and we turn around. I don't know who it is, but he appears to know me. I find it only slightly disturbing. I've become really famous around here in the last few days, and for all the wrong reasons.

Merrick seems to know him, though. "Corporal, it's good to see you again." Merrick doesn't smile, but he shakes the man's hand. I do the same, reading his Air Force uniform's nametag. Cpl. Smalt.

"I realize that you might not know who exactly I am," Cpl. Smalt tells me, leaving my hand red after being stressed. That was a really firm handshake. "I was part of the teams that stormed the satellite station on the ground. Not all of us made it out of there, but it was mainly thanks to you and Logan shutting down their response mechanisms."

My face darkens, and I'm immediately thrust back into the situation. The room literally had a hole in the wall, I remember, and Logan pressed the button that shut down the mechanisms. That was the green light for Icarus, and then we went for the train…

My gunshot wound hurts again, from where Logan shot me through Rorke. There white bandaging that wraps around my stomach beneath my Special Forces uniform, and it has completely limited my core. I can't even touch my toes without it hurting so much that I have to recoil. As soon as the extraction teams got to me, too late to save Logan, they brought me back to the _Argo_ and stitched up the wound. Luckily, the bullet had gone through me, but it still hurt like hell. The lasting impact was what mattered, anyway.

"Yeah," I reply weakly, frowning in discomfort. "Just doing my part."

Cpl. Smart looks equally awkward, and shifts his feet. "Look, when I was younger, I lost my sister. She was on ODIN when it was hijacked ten years ago." His face is grief-stricken now, too. "We were both in the Air Force. She was in permanently, but I just wanted to be able to go to college. And when I found out about the attack, when I learned there were no survivors…" He stops, and looks at me in the eye meaningfully. "I've been in your situation before, I guess is what I'm trying to say. Just be brave."

The silence after this is unbearable, but I don't know how to break it. Merrick, who really has nothing to contribute, stands awkwardly, staring at his feet. After ten seconds or so, Riley starts thumping his tail against my leg, and barks loudly. "Thanks," I tell Cpl. Smalt gruffly, scratching the back of my neck nervously.

He nods, and turns back to Merrick, where they start talking. I'm focused on Riley now, who is whimpering and panting, which means he's either scared or hungry. Probably the latter. "Hey, Merrick, I'm gonna go and get Riley some food and have him checked out," I tell him. He nods, and resumes his conversation about Loki with Cpl. Smalt.

Loki came through the atmosphere thirty minutes after Icarus had taken control of it, more than enough time for them to cover the Marine forces' escape from the satellite base, and to put some hits on large Federation cities like Cacarus, Rio, and Sau Paulo, as well as some of their known military bases. The Federation wasn't close to as crippled as the United States still was, but millions of their funding had gone to waste with their failure to control Loki, as well as an extremely high casualty rate.

Riley had stopped barking now that we reentered the battleship, going towards Dr. Stratus' room. He was one of the many surgeons on the ship, and had operated on Riley to repair his bone after it had crippled under him on his escape from the _Liberator_. Now, he simply operated from his own cabin as the medical emergencies wore down, providing checkups for his previous cases as well as me, because of the fact that I was bringing Riley to him so often.

I knock three times on the metal door to Dr. Stratus' cabin, telling Riley to sit next to me. He obeys, and the door eventually opens to reveal the now-familiar face of Dr. Stratus. "Hello Hesh! And Riley! I should have been expecting you two before the day ended."

Riley barks hello and follows me into the room as the surgeon holds the door open. His face has developing laugh lines, which curl up towards his light blue eyes. His hear is a salt and pepper mix, blending in many places. Dr. Stratus looks like an aged man, and yet he is only in his late forties. The War with the Federation must be taking its toll on him.

"How are you doing, kid?" he asks me, obviously kind-hearted. However, I can't help but find the 'kid' in his dialogue jutting out at me, making me feel childish. I hate that feeling, and it seems like everyone on this ship thinks that it will somehow make me feel better. Nevertheless, I shake his hand warmly and strain a smile, because that's the polite thing to do.

"Fine, I guess, but I figured that Riley needs to be checked after a day of walking around," I explain, when Riley looks at me expectantly. "And he also wants some food. We ran out back at our cabin, and there's no point in getting another whole bag since we're so close to San Francisco. I guess this was the place to come."

Dr. Stratus nods, gesturing for us to follow him to the examination table in the middle of his room. Because he works on the ship, his cabin is private and is a little larger than, say, the one that Merrick, Riley and I are sharing, even though we have more people. I lift Riley up and place him on the examination table, where the dog obediently sits, his tail thumping against the table and his injured leg barely being put under any pressure.

Dr. Stratus stares at the leg, taking some notes on a clipboard that documents Riley's progress as he recovers from the injury. "Yes, he's still favoring his other three legs. I would say that four to five weeks seems more certain for the amount of time that it'll take for him to fully heal and be able to get the cast off." The doctor continues watching his leg as I reach and grab some dog food off of a shelf.

Riley barks with delight as I put down a small tray of the food in front of him, and he balances carefully without using his injured leg to lean down and eat. "He's already mobile enough for basic tasks, but we're going to have to limit him to walking and such so something like what happened on the _Liberator_ doesn't happen again," Dr. Stratus continues.

"Thanks. So still four to five weeks until he can get the cast off?" I query, just to make sure. The surgeon nods, and I thank him again as Riley continues eating his food.

"What do you think about my wound?" I question, and Dr. Stratus lifts the top half of my uniform off to expose the bandaging. He presses down where the gunshot was, and I wince. I'm definitely not ready to go back in the field, but at least I can walk.

"That hurts, right?" he says, and I nod. "I think that the initial diagnosis holds. You'll have to wait for the same two months until you can go back into the field."

I bite my lip, disappointed. I knew that there wouldn't be a change, especially since it was just an informal check, so I wasn't really going to get that much out of it. But two months out of service, two months before I could actually do something about Logan. Something needed to be done about him being captured, and all I could do was sit back and watch.

"Hey, kid," a voice says from the door, and I turn to see Keegan. His shoulder is leaning against the iron frame of the door, supporting his own injured leg. That's why he hadn't gone with Logan and I to the satellite base and ultimately the cargo train. Much like what had happened with Riley, during his escape of the _Liberator_, he had broken a leg. I can see his crutches leaning against the metal pipes that make the wall of the hallway outside of Dr. Stratus' cabin.

"Keegan! I thought you had already gone back to San Francisco," I exclaim, surprised but glad to see him. Carefully, I force myself not to think of him calling me 'kid'. It would put me in a worse mood than I'm already in.

He nods, gesturing for me to walk towards him. Obviously it's easier for him to stay there and have me walk closer to him than the other way around. "The chopper I got on during my escape from the _Liberator_ went straight to the _Kraken_, which was full of refugees faster than the other five battleships."

"I didn't even know there was a sixth one there for the attack," I state, wondrous of this new information. It doesn't really change anything, but it's interesting.

"Anyways, they took me back to shore on a chopper after only two days because of my leg. Figured I needed a better diagnosis, which I now have," he continues, gesturing to his leg. It is in an actual cast, unlike Riley's leg, and looks as if it will take longer to heal than the German Shepherd's injury.

"Well that's good. How long until you can go back out?" I ask, petting Riley as he finishes the food that I gave him.

"Six to eight weeks, the doctors said. They have a really high tech facility back in San Fran, it's crazy. It looks like a fully functioning military hospital from before the ODIN strikes, and this has been redeveloped from a civilian one." He shakes his head in disbelief. "It's crazy, the kind of science that they're able to put out there these days.

"But that's not the only reason I went back to shore so fast," Keegan explains, pausing to think. "When they finished my advanced diagnosis, I had a meeting with Commander Parson."

"Really?" I exclaim, mesmerized. Commander Parson is the head of all United States military operations, which is quite a title to hold at this point of the War with the Federation. That he requested to talk to Keegan personally, that's revered as an honor for my friend.

"What did he talk to you about?" I ask him, intrigued.

Keegan shifts uncomfortably. "Well, a lot, actually, and a lot of it was pretty important. Before I tell you, though, do you promise not to freak out?"

The frown on his face tells me that I probably should freak out, but I try to be strong. "Okay, go ahead. What is it?"

"There's good news and bad news…" he begins, pulling at the collar of his shirt. I didn't notice until then that he wasn't in uniform, but rather just an army green shirt and black pants. He still has a gun in his holster, though. "The good news is that Team Stalker is being suspended while our injuries heal. In English, the US is giving you, me, and Riley enough time to heal before letting the Ghosts become operational again."

That's not necessarily good news, I think, but okay. We'll be able to lick our wounds, but do I really want to spend a lot of time out of action. "What about Merrick?" I query.

"He's going to be acting as a Commanding Officer, like during your operation to take out the satellite base. Not necessarily over us, because we're going to have some time off, but other forces," he explains.

I nod. "So what's the bad news?"

Again, Keegan tugs at his collar nervously. "Considering your intel about what Rorke said to Logan when he captured him, we launched a raid on the facility where the Federation, er, brainwashed Rorke. The whole place was burned to the ground, and the ashes, forensics found out, are three years old. At least, the ones that didn't scatter.

"So if they are going to make Logan go under a similar procedure, then it isn't going to be where they changed Rorke. Which means that we're in the blind because there is so much territory to cover in the Amazon, or South America as a whole, and not enough resources to monitor it all. We're fighting a war now, and a new front has opened up in Texas. The Federation is trying to advance from Dallas, seeing as they captured it effortlessly as a failed diversion when they attacked Santa Monica."

I stand, thinking for a minute. I've stopped petting Riley, who instead pays attention to Dr. Stratus, who silently continues to observe the dog's leg. "So, we have no idea where Logan is?" I finally croak out.

"Yeah," Keegan replies, looking dejected.

"And… And there's nothing we're doing about it?"

"Yeah."

I think that a year ago, my fuse would have snapped right then and there. But I've matured a lot, at least I think, and I'm able to contain my anger. I force myself to swallow as tears brim in my eyes. Logan is gone, and there's nothing we can do about him until he comes back out into the open.

A year ago I would have unloaded, screaming in pain and anger, wanting to find out why we couldn't do anything. But now I just accepted it, because Logan's situation was growing more and more hopeless. This was just another setback, I told myself. But it was more than that. It meant that I might never see him again until they had broken him.

If they could, that is.

"Hesh, I'm sorry," Keegan continues, bringing me out of my dark thoughts into an even colder, unforgiving reality. "It wasn't my decision, but I figured you should hear it from someone you know other than…"

"Yeah, I get it," I tell him, dismissing the subject. Keegan had no part in the decision to give up on the search for Logan, I'm sure of that. But I don't want to talk about Logan anymore. Not if the odds of him surviving with a brave heart are this low.

"There was some other good news, though," Keegan continues, limping over to his crutches and gesturing for me to follow him. "I'll tell you on the way there."

"The way where?" I ask, confused.

He rolls his eyes once his shoulders are propped up on the crutches. "Back to San Francisco, smart one. Better get Riley if you want him to come with us." He smiles sarcastically. "You get to take the express ride."

I thank Dr. Stratus, who I realize we just alienated from a five minute long conversation. That doesn't really go over well with my brain, but it doesn't matter. I lift Riley down from the examining table, still licking his lips after finishing his kibble, and then follow Keegan back through the metal hallways of the _Argo_.

"So why am I getting the express ride to the mainland?" I question Keegan, who slowly begins his way up the metal staircase to the deck of the battleship. "We aren't all that far away now, are we?"

"True, we're only about an hour away at the fleet's cruising pace, but there are other variables. Commander Parson wants Merrick to coordinate a Spec Op from the San Francisco base right away, and that means that Merrick is technically the one who needs to go back to shore right away. There's enough room in the chopper I came on for you and Riley, though, so I figure we might as well make our last ride as a Ghost squad for a while," Keegan explains.

The way he says that it'll be our last ride for a while makes me feel a little depressed. I've never felt more inbred with a military squad, even without Logan. Keegan and Merrick feel like family because I've bled with them. Over the past month, they've become part of my life. Destroying the Federation navy was a good place to stop, I supposed. But my brother was still something to strive for. I wanted him back.

The Venom helicopter awaits on the deck, its rotors still churning. There's a pilot and copilot, and Merrick is already sitting in the back, awaiting us. I get in the back of the chopper first, grunting as I lift myself up. It requires bending my core, which sends a flash of pain through me. Riley hops up afterwards, settling down in the middle of the passenger area. Merrick and I help Keegan up as he places his crutches down on the helicopter. He sits next to me, and Merrick sits on the other side of the chopper, scratching Riley behind the ears. The three of us buckle in and hold on to the metal handles that provide us support so we don't go flailing into the Pacific.

The helicopter lifts off, high above the convoy of battleships, and then speeds in the direction of San Francisco. The mist, which we now move through at a high speed, washes over me like wading into a pool of ice water on a hot summer day. It relieves my stress, and I silently enjoy the ride with my friends, should I choose to call them that.

After fifteen minutes or so – I couldn't really keep up with the time, lost in my emotions and whatnot – the ruins of the Golden Gate bridge become visible. The massive, orange hulks that are the large supporters stand tall still, but they have been modified into guard towers. On top of each of them is a light that acts as a lighthouse, as well as a sniper tower to make sure any ships moving into the San Francisco bay were American. They get in easily because the middle section of the bridge was hit by the ODIN strikes, and has since been cleared out to make an accessible entrance to the harbor. The bridge still stands to some level, but not nearly as impressively as it must have once for this reason.

"Wow, this place has changed," I mutter, to which I get a sideways glance from Keegan. The awe of the remnants of the bridge remind me of one of my last vacations before the ODIN strikes. I remember it now, vividly. The city had been misty, just like it was now, but the Golden Gate bridge, it was a marvel of architecture. That had been a weekend vacation, just after I had graduated high school. Logan had just graduated his sophomore year in high school, and Dad had taken us to San Francisco to celebrate. Just to see the sights, since we were more used to southern California. It hadn't been this misty in late June twelve years ago, but what was happening here now was out of the ordinary, to my knowledge.

"Changed a lot since when?" Merrick asks, turning towards me.

"Before the ODIN strikes," I explain. "I haven't been back here since then. What about you, Merrick?"

He thinks for a minute. "I think I came here once for debriefing a while ago. But I never had an extended stay like the three of us are going to have."

The chopper flies to the right of the guard tower, heading towards the military base that dominates the area just north of downtown. In the distance, through the mist, is Oakland, which is serving as the more residential part of the establishment. It's a large enough compound that I'm surprised that it wasn't one of the higher level bases in the Pacific until the devastation at Santa Monica.

The helicopter begins descending as the skyscrapers of downtown San Francisco appear to the south. This city wasn't hit by the ODIN strikes all that hard, just the business district being hit hard. The whole area is in ruin, with some skyscrapers still standing tall and others in shambles. The military base doesn't extend all the way there; it's too unstable, especially considering the frequent seismic activity of the area. So instead it remains untouched, a true apocalyptic ruin in the distance.

Our chopper slows as it approaches what used to be a large parking lot and is now a landing area for helicopters. The rotors slowly stop churning as we slowly touch down. I hop out first, followed by Merrick and Riley, and then Keegan with his crutches. "There should be a Humvee waiting for us here, to take us to the command center," Keegan explains, propping himself up as we begin off of the landing pad.

An officer wearing a helmet with a lot of communications equipment attached walks up to us. I see a microphone, earpieces, a visor with scrolling information. The helmet is like a bulky, wearable smartphone. "You all are the Ghosts coming back from Chile?" he questions, to which we nod. "Follow me, then." He waves his hand, speaking loudly as if it's hard to hear us. He probably has a lot of information feeding through his earpiece anyways, so I try to tell myself not to criticize him.

He leads us off the airstrip and towards a Humvee. Keegan turns to, grinning. "Told you!" he exclaims.

Keegan seems like a different person when not involved in a mission. He's easy-going, not like the rock hard, cold person he is when he's out in the field. At first, I thought he just never took off his mask, since it took me a couple days to actually see him without it on. He isn't very revealing, and that action emphasizes it.

The group follows the officer to a Humvee that is parked just off of the airstrip. A man and a woman in military police uniforms are waiting there, leaning against the car with bored looks on their faces. The officer who lead us here stops in front of them. "Here's the Ghost squad that you all are waiting. Straight to the command center," he told them, and then turned back to the airstrip.

The two military police officers enter the driver and shotgun seats of the car, while the rest of us pile into the back. The car begins to drive along the roads of this outer district of San Francisco, the roads inhabited by soldiers on patrol. The street, for the most part, is clear, by the sidewalks are stocked with people going to their next meeting or briefing.

In the city, mist hangs in the streets, providing an ominous atmosphere to the military base. Riley stares out the windows nervously, whimpering. "What is it, boy?" I ask him, scratching behind his ears. There isn't anything to be afraid of here, but San Francisco is new territory. I wonder what this meeting with Commander Parson holds.

The Humvee takes a left turn into a road that isn't traveled by the high amount of soldiers that the other roads had been. Up ahead is a checkpoint, where a number of officials in military police uniforms stand, milling about. As our transport slows down, approaching the checkpoint, I look over the men and equipment to a building looming down the road, with the definite looks of a command center. It is taller than all the other buildings in this area of the city, shaped in a circle that stretches up into the air with black, tinted windows against its shining black metal. There are American flags hanging on either side of the grand doors in front.

"Sgt. Wells?" one of the inspectors asks the driver of our car, leaning his head in. He scans the backseat, looking at the four of us piled in behind our two escorts in front. "Driving in some precious cargo, I see."

"They're here to talk to Commander Parson," the driver, Sgt. Wells, answers. "Executive order, they're just driving here from the tarmac."

The inspector nods and steps back, waving the car through. The engine rumbles as it begins to drive again, moving to the grassy hill that the command center sits atop of. Now that we're closer, I can see multiple satellite dishes atop of the building. As the Humvee turns onto another road that heads toward a parking garage to the right of the hill, Merrick starts tapping his fingers against the glass.

"It's so weird to be permanently taking up a command position," he comments, talking to Keegan and I. "I'm so used to being in the field, and now this. This has always been Elias' job, it just doesn't feel right."

At the sound of my dad's name, I close my eyes in grief. The Vegas base had been so secure for a long time, a hideout that we had thought was completely remote and undiscovered. Instead, it was where the Federation had assaulted us, where Logan and I had watched our dad die at the hands of Rorke. Those hands now held Logan.

"Just think of it as a job interview," Keegan reassures him, staring at the magnificent building that fades to our left as we enter the parking garage. "You were great commandeering the assault for all the Special Force squads in Chile."

Merrick doesn't answer, but I think that for the shortest moment, he shifts his gaze to me, and then looks back away. Don't tell me that he feels remorseful, like losing Logan was his fault. I can't stomach him taking the fall for that. If it's anyone's fault, then it's mine.

The Humvee rolls to a stop in a parking spot on the second floor of the garage, and the two military police officers get out quickly. "It's simple enough to get to the command center from here," Sgt. Wells tells us, turning to walk away. "I'm sorry, but we've got a call to answer right now from our CO."

They hurry off as I help Riley out of the car, Merrick and Keegan getting out on the other side. "Do you think they actually have to leave, or they don't like us?" Keegan jokes.

I shrug, not really in the mood to laugh. There must be a lot in store with Commander Parson, Keegan leading us towards a stairwell. We all make our way down in silence, Riley going noticeably slower than the rest of us because of his cast.

At the bottom of the stairwell, the room opens to a path that leads out of the garage, onto a sidewalk, and a crosswalk across the road to a path up the hill to the command center. There are more people now, all of them looking more official than just the normal soldiers back before the checkpoint. Some of the people wear suits, some of them wear command uniforms, but none of them wear the Special Forces uniforms that the three of us wear.

Because of this, I can feel quite a few eyes prying on us, inspecting us as if we aren't normal. We're the ones who do the real fighting, and most of these people sit around, directing us to go here or there, and they act like we're different. I shake my head. They probably respect us, they're just surprised to see people in combat uniforms walking here. I just feel like an outsider here, for whatever reason. I don't know myself, but I bite my lip nervously.

At the top of the hill, the path leads right to the same front doors that we saw earlier. A fountain sprays water gallantly in front of the doors. "Quite the atmosphere for a facility that orchestrates killing," I mutter, glancing at Merrick. He looks obviously nervous.

I push the front doors open to reveal a grand lobby. The floors are an elegant white marble, sparkling under the lights. People filter to the numerous elevators on the left of the room. To the right are reception desks, where everyone without a ID tag is filtering. "Oh yeah, you guys are gonna need those," Keegan remembers, pulling out three of them, handing them out to Merrick and I. He slips his own on as I investigate mine. There is my picture, including a bunch of information like my date of birth, hair color, eye color, the kind of stuff that was on my driver's license prior to the ODIN strikes.

"What about Riley?" I query, glancing down at the dog. "Are German Shepherds even allowed here?"

"He can probably pass for a police dog, considering his breed," Keegan answers, starting towards the elevators. "Once we see Commander Parson, we'll be outfitted like we belong here. That includes Riley."

I don't understand what he means by outfitted for a dog, but I follow him. There's an elevator that's passengers are all exiting as soon as we get to it, and once it's empty, we step into it. Keegan thumbs the button that says _21_.

"21?" Merrick questions as the doors close. "There definitely were not twenty-one floors from the view on the outside."

Then the elevator starts moving, and it actually moves down. "The ten floors that ascend are purely for residential purposes, since they're easier to breach. The server rooms, meeting rooms, and armories are all underground to make it that much harder for any Federation forces to assault the facility. It was all considered during the design of the building," Keegan explains.

"You mean this building was built after the war started?" I ask, confused. Most military buildings, especially in big cities, have simply been adapted from buildings that already existed, since it was hard to pay for all the equipment required to build that kind of facility, especially in the crippled state that the United States was in.

Keegan nods as the doors of the elevator open, revealing a large room that looks just as professional as the lobby. Two men are sitting at a table going over a number of files. In the background is an extensive set of desks and computers, people working hard over documents and satellite feeds. There is a buzz of talking, and I realize this is where a lot of the people who provide instruction on the battlefield work. Usually I got orders from either my dad, and most recently Merrick, who were both mobile. But this is the kind of facility that directs all of that instruction. I suddenly feel even more out of place.

The two men ask Keegan what we're here for. He explains a bunch of stuff about us being a Ghost squad and being here to see Commander Parson, but I am mesmerized by all of the equipment displayed in front of me.

"Hesh!" Keegan says, and I turn to him suddenly. "You need to sign this form so that you can verify that you got the ID tag."

I pick up the pen that lies next to the paper on the table and sign where Keegan points without reading anything. It seems like a lot of official information that really isn't needed, but I have to if I want to see Commander Parson. "OK, now where do we go?"

"Just down the hall to the left, there's an office room. You can't miss it," one of the men at the desk says. Keegan nods, and then leads Merrick, Riley and I along a hallway that branches off from the main control room. There are a number of office rooms, but there is one at the end of the hallway that you can tell is the most important.

A shining nametag that reads _Commander Parson_ is emblazed on the solid black door. Keegan knocks on it twice, and the four of us wait awkwardly in the bright lights casting down from the ceiling. The door opens, revealing a tall man with thinning grey hair and salt and pepper stubble. His eyes are a cold grey, and they cast a dark feeling on me. He looks important, but maybe that's just because I already know he is.

"Keegan, it's good to see you made it back safe," he says shaking hands with Keegan. He then looks at Merrick and I. "I presume that you are the rest of the Ghost squad. David Walker and Thomas Merrick?"

I nod, taking initiative by shaking his hand. It is cold and scratchy, just like I imagine his personality is. "Yes, sir. It's an honor to meet you, Commander."

He shakes his head vigorously. "I should be saying that to you, Lieutenant. You're one of our finest troops," he tells me, his eyes gleaming all of a sudden. "I'm sorry about your father and brother, but I'd like to recognize that you have a lot of potential once your injury heals up. If you'd like to go into the office with Riley and Keegan, I have to show Lieutenant Merrick where he'll be auditioning for a command spot."

He nods to me and then leads Merrick away from his office, which Keegan leads me into. "You can just sit over there, he'll explain our situation briefly," he explains to me, pointing at the three chairs that sit opposite of Commander Parson's desk.

Riley shuffles his way over to me, making a whimpering noise. "Don't worry boy, we should be out of here soon," I assure him, scratching his head. He sits and thumps his tail against the marble floor, panting happily to me.

Keegan lounges in the chair next to me, stretching out his legs. "Don't worry, Hesh. He's a nice guy, especially when he already respects you. Which, in your case, he does on a high level." He smiles a little bit, closing his eyes. "It feels so good to be gone from the field. I think you're gonna like it to have a break, kid."

Kid. Why does everyone have to call me kid? I don't have much time to stew on it, though, as Commander Parson walks back into the room. "Gentlemen. And the German Shepherd," he says, greeting us again while making his way to the seat behind his desk. "I'm just going to get right to the point and explain to Hesh why we're deactivating the Ghosts squad temporarily.

"I think in general it's pretty obvious. The main squad, which was the squad of four that includes you two, Merrick, and Logan Walker, is effectively neutralized. We're putting our best efforts together to find Logan, but frankly, Hesh, you're injured, and Merrick is taking the command position that Elias has had for a long time. Hesh, you'll be leading the squad from now on, but for now, the Ghost team is deactivated."

I'm confused for a second. "But that's three, or two, people in a whole squad. Are we going to recruit more people?" I ask Commander Parson.

The Commander nods, going on to explain the situation more. "In the three months that you'll be given time to rest up, we'll be recruiting soldiers out of the Special Forces, Delta squads, as well as numerous SEAL teams. They'll be tested in grueling conditions, similar to what you and Logan went through in No Man's Land.

"Be aware, though, that the future plans for Ghost teams are of top level clearance. You are being entrusted with this information because of your worth to the United States' ultimate mission of protecting however many civilians and constitutional values we have left from our enemies to the south."

"So what will the two of us be doing for the next three months?" I question, referring to Keegan and I.

"You'll be taking up residential spots in the command center here, so that you'll always be close enough for a surprise meeting and to supervise the operations that Merrick will be conducting in the coming time," Commander Parson explains to me. "You'll be able to keep Riley with you, before you ask. I figure that's important to you. He'll have to have an identification badge, but it'll be okay."

"Thank you sir," I tell him, standing up to leave. "May I just go to my room right now? I would like to get situated, especially since the day is coming to a close."

Commander Parson nods, showing me the way to the door. "If you ask people at the reception area in the lobby, they'll tell you where your room is. The ID tag is the key," he explains, shaking hands with me again. "It's been a pleasure, Lieutenant, and I hope that you have a great stay here in San Francisco."

"The honor is mine, sir," I tell him, but as I leave the room with Riley, Keegan still speaking with the commander. All I can think about, though, is that he was involved in making the decision to give up the search for Logan. Even though he's an honorable man, I wish that he had made a different decision where that was concerned.

I would bide my time, though. Rorke wasn't going to kill Logan, I was sure of it. And whatever he was making my brother into, I would have to fight him. But first, I had to let my wounds heal. In the aftermath of the satellite base, there was a lot that had to be considered. Logan would be OK, I told myself. He would be OK…

**Well, that's it for the beginning. In the waning hours directly after Loki satellite's hijacking, we see a new kind of war, very different than the one that the United States has been fighting for ten years. I hope you guys liked it; this first chapter is kind of mellow, just a bunch of talking. The real, CoD action will be coming soon, trust me!**

**I'll try to update pretty quickly, so please hang in there. I hope to see you all soon, but please review and I'll definitely appreciate the input, and use it! For now, though, stay gold!**


	2. The Ghost Captor

**Hello once more, faithful readers! I'm glad to see that you've either taken interest in my story because you've made it all the way to the second chapter! What an incredible feat! :P Sorry, its really early in the morning and I just woke up and can't fall back asleep so I figured I would write the author's note that I was going to write after school and publish. AAH Run on sentence.**

**OK. Something I have to address. I think I said this before, but I just want to make it clear. This story, like any traditional CoD, switches point of view pretty much every chapter. It's going to heavily favor Logan and Hesh, but keep that in mind. I have not and hopefully will not receive and rage on me introducing OC's, which I don't do this chapter, but will in the future.**

**Also, please don't rage at me for varying chapter lengths. I don't see why anyone would, but I guarantee someone will have a problem with it eventually. Some chapters will be long, and some will be shorter, like this one. Please understand that, and don't call it a lack of effort. And for reference, chapters probably won't be longer than what we saw last chapter. That was long.**

**And thank you to everyone who put in the effort to review! Every little bit counts, and I really appreciate it if you were one of those who stopped to write out what you thought about my story. That said, thanks to everyone who's actually sticking with the story, everyone who followed and favorited either me or the story. Like I said, everything counts, and I'm thankful for every little bit guys! :D Now, the responses!**

**MasterDerp5885 **- Thanks! I thought that the archive needed one too, and I got the idea and figured that I could help out. :P With your question, are you talking about per chapter or chapters in the story? Per chapter, it will probably range from this length to the length of chapter 1. In the whole story, however, I'm not certain. I'm not completely done with planning out the story, but it will be in a range of 25-40 chapters. XD Wide range, but so be it.

**Cab00se12 **- I'm glad to see you enjoyed the first chapter so much, considering that in my opinion it was a bunch of boring talking! As I said in the author's note, the point of view is going to switch around a bunch, but mainly focus on Logan and Hesh. So I guess that you're in for a treat. :D

**kiarainu **- Thanks very much, and, well, here's the next chapter for you. :P May I ask, what does that insignia after your review mean? I'm too tired to open up another page and look it up on Google Translate.

**Beawolf's Pen **- Thanks for the solid opinion! I realize that there was a lot of talking at the beginning, but I think I needed to explain a lot of stuff before the action starts next chapter. And yeah, I'll try to keep up my spelling and grammar. I don't think I'm illiterate, but I do make mistakes every once in a while. Thanks for the pointers!

**Amy **- Well, I'm glad to hear that! I'm certainly going to keep writing because I love to write, but thanks for the extra inspiration! :P

**Well, that's the five reviews that had come through by the time I'm writing this. I really didn't expect five reviews on the first chapter, guys. Thanks a whole, whole lot for the support and I hope to continue to see it! Five reviews is just outstanding, from what I gather. :D**

**Anyways, without any other further drama or me rumbling on in reviews, here is chapter 2!**

_The Ghost Captor  
__Somewhere in the Amazon  
__July 9__th__, 04:52:46  
__Logan Walker_

In the darkness, there is nothing to see for a long time. The world I see is like an endless blot of black ink, with no end in sight. There are swirls of the ink, constantly rippling around my vision, never procuring into shapes. Not for a while, at least.

After a long time, the ink swirls into a helicopter, its rotors thundering against the black sky. It passes over a thick rainforest, trees arching up unevenly and rivers cutting through the underbrush. The endless drone of the rotors buzzes at my ears, and my disembodied eyes follow it as it quickly flies over the black landscape.

"You're all alone now, Logan," a voice says, rippling through the ink world. "You don't know where you are, your saviors don't know where you are. You and I, we're all alone now."

That voice is the voice of the man who has destroyed my world, torn it apart and is now attempting to put it back together again in the same fashion that his captors did to him twelve years ago. "You would've been a hell of a Ghost," Rorke says in my head, echoing over and over again, like in every dream since my capture. "But there ain't gonna be any Ghosts. We're gonna destroy them together."

His southern twang makes me sick, and I instantly awake, the black ink swirling away in a flash, and my eyes open to an even sicker reality. I'm lying on my back, at the bottom of a pit. The ground is slick with mud, and water trickles down the sides of the small hole in the ground. A bamboo fence covers the top of it, which is now being lifted up. Two men, dressed in Federation uniforms and carrying submachine guns. "Out!" one of the yells down at me, while the other grabs my arm and struggles to pull me up the side.

Luckily, the soldier had wrenched my left arm, the uninjured one. My right arm was still broken, in a hard cast that set it into position. The soldier pulled me harder, and I dug my shoes into the side of the pit to help myself up onto even ground. Rain pelts down through the trees, and thunder crackles in the distance. The Amazon is a common place for thunderstorms, and one seems to be rolling over at the present time.

A foot hits my face, and I suddenly slam back onto my back, still on higher ground, but now I probably have a bruise on my face. A bag goes over my head, and I can't see anything now, but the guards begin dragging me on my knees, pulling my arms. I force myself not to scream; the pain in my arm is excruciating. I will not say a word, though. They can't break me, I tell myself.

I can hear many different soldiers barking orders in Spanish, which I don't understand for the most part. The ground beneath my legs, which was gravel before, turns to cement, and eventually a voice tells me to stand. I'm continuously led on, arms not holding onto me anymore, but rather the barrel of a gun pressed against the small of my back.

Eventually, the gun is released from its position on my back, and the bag is torn from my head. I'm thrown to the ground, and water starts spraying on me before I can realize what is happening to me. This is a shower, I realize, and start stripping off my clothes and tossing them to the side of the stall. They're all caked with mud, and the curtain that separates the stall from whatever else is out there gets wet as I wash the mud and sweat off of me.

I do this quickly, in case there is a time limit as to how long I'm allowed to be in here. There's one, drying soap bar to use, and I clean myself quickly. The water is freezing cold, but I don't care; it wakes me up from my terrible reality, which seems as much like a dream as my black ink dreams that plague me every night.

The freezing water eventually shuts off, luckily after I've washed myself the best I can. I'm disappointed, though, because it felt much better than the rainwater that pours into my pit every day. The curtain opens seconds after, a towel thrust at me forcefully by a guard, who awkwardly averts his eyes. I grab the towel as it punches into my chest, and quickly dry off, tie it around my chest, and then follow the guard as he points with his gun out of the bathroom.

Another convoy of guards orders me down a labyrinth of hallways in Spanish. I obey silently, hoping that I'm doing what they tell me. The whole time, I feel awkwardly exposed, considering the fact that I'm shirtless. Down another dark hallway, the soldiers push me into a pitch black room, and shut the door violently.

The lights suddenly blare on, to reveal a desk in the center of the room with a single man sitting at it. The lights are on the ceiling, but a lamp is also on the desk, casting rays of light on a single book that rests on the wooden desk. There are two hands clasped together on the desk, and a dark face that watches me intently.

"There are some clothes on the floor next to you," Rorke says, his biting southern accent making me grit my teeth. He makes no effort to control me, but I can see that he has a gun on the desk as well. He just sits, watching and waiting for me to make a move.

Rorke wants to play games. He wants me to succumb to him and do what he wants; to join up with him to take out the rest of the Ghosts. He can't break me, though, no matter how hard he tries. But there's a difference between standing up to your enemies and being stupid. Being stupid would get me killed. I would have to play along with Rorke and the Federation for a good amount of time in order to make it out of here alive.

I untie the towel around my waste and quickly slip on the clothes. While I'm exposed, Rorke looks away, but keeps a hand on his gun just in case I try anything. Like I said, I'm not stupid. I know how to handle this kind of situation, even if I'm not speaking. The clothes are a fresh pair of the ones that I had before, a grey shirt with long black pants. After I dress myself, I sit down in the seat opposite Rorke.

The lack of things on the table discomforts me; a book and a gun are the only things of interest, and I silently watch Rorke as his fingers envelop around the latter. I also don't like that I'm unarmed; if this goes badly, I'm clearly at the disadvantage.

"Let's begin things very simply, son. What is your name?" Rorke asks me slowly, staring me down. I stay silent, and that doesn't sit well with him. The corners of his mouth twitch as he realizes that I'm not quite broken yet. He leans forward, frustrated. "I hope that you won't disobey me, son. Things might get ugly, and we're all friends here, right?"

He sits back in his chair, his hand leaving the gun and clasping together with his other hand. "What's your name?" he asks politely again. My eyes dart to the gun, obviously, I assume, and then back to my captor.

"Sergeant Logan Walker," I answer, my voice dry and humble. I haven't spoken since I got here, and I'm naturally quiet anyways. I hate the sound of my voice now; its scratchy and broken, and it makes me sound like I'm intimidated when I'm really not.

Rorke shakes his head, though, even though I did what he asked. "Logan, you aren't a Sergeant anymore. You have no title at the moment. What, do you think you can just walk in here and call yourself a sergeant? You'll have to earn our trust, our trust, before you can take that rank," he scolds me.

What? I stare at him blankly. Obviously this is a mind game. I'm a sergeant in the USSF, not whatever he's saying. I think that he thinks I'm saying I'm a sergeant in the Federation, because I've supposedly joined them. I think that's it. So, I suppose, I have to play that card.

I swallow hard, trying to soften my voice, and stare at my interrogator. "_Sir_, I think that you're a bit mistaken. I'm still a sergeant for the United States. And I'm certainly not, and will not ever be, part of you Southern American bastards, like you turned to them," I snarl, feeling more confident in myself now that my voice sends better.

The man scratches at his stubble, thinking and closing his eyes. Now would be a good opportunity to grab the gun and end this, I think, but I know Rorke has good reflexes. He won't be caught off guard like that so easily.

"Well, I suppose you're a little too early in the process to have recognized the truth, especially since you haven't been taught anything by being thrown in a pit and fed poison," he answers, opening his eyes and grabbing the book. "Do you know what this is?"

"An extremely exciting piece of literature," I respond sarcastically, but I recognize it. It's the Federation Codes, a book about why the organization does what it does, and what its motives are. We haven't been able to get our hands on it; it's like the Federation's personal Magna Carta. But here it is, sitting in front of me, easily distinguishable by the surprisingly public image of the Federation's flag design on a backdrop of the South American continent.

"This is the Federation Codes," Rorke explains, holding it up for me. "It explains the intentions of Almagro, how they were adapted to be practical after his assassination," he continues, sneering at the part that he had obvious implications in, "and all of the military and political procedures and plans for the state's future."

I nod, trying to come off as bored. My intention right now is to make _him_ uncomfortable, since the opposite seems to be so important to him. Actually, this is really interesting, that the Codes are sitting right in front of me, open for the taking. I have to play mind games, though, if that's what Rorke will try to do to me. "And how does this affect me?" I ask snidely.

"It will teach you why the world is seen the correct way through the Federation's eyes, and will eventually show you the way in the same fashion that it showed me," he explains further, his eyes suddenly filled with the wonder of a small child, rather than the cold blooded killer that he actually is.

"So, this book will teach me how to be a traitor? Splendid," I say, which ticks off Rorke.

He stands up quickly, grabbing the pistol and pressing it against my forehead. The cold barrel feels like ice, and for the first time of this meeting I'm actually a little nervous. I don't show it, though, as I stare right back into Rorke's menacing eyes.

"Logan, I like you. A lot more than your annoying-ass brother, and a hell of a lot more than your prissy father," he barks, the veins on his hand bulging and his knuckles turning white on the grip of the gun. "There's a reason I want you on my side, and it's because you are the best soldier I've seen in a long time. Not only that, but your personality is good; you're quiet for the most part, but there's the resilience in there that makes a strong ally." He pauses for a moment, pulling the gun away and placing it back on the table. "So don't make me kill you."

Rorke sits back down, and opens the book to a page about a quarter through. "The origin of the Federation was a strategic one, formed on the basis of rejuvenating the economies of a number of great nations in South America that had struggled into the dawn of the 21st century. Due to the number of natural resources above ground, such as a large, constant wood supply, as well as underground in the oil and minerals. It was a brilliant plan, but what did they have to prove?

"Well, as the Middle East slowly ran out of resources, many countries began turning to the Federation for resources. As the economy grew for the country, other South American countries began joining the Federation for the military and political support. And with more land came more resources, which became more appealing to European nations, as well as the land that you and I fought for once.

"The United States, unknowingly, were aiding their own downfall by losing interest in the Middle East and instead turning to the Federation like all of their NATO allies. As they probed the Federation government, because of their overly self-conscious sense of security, they learned of the Federation's ultimate plan, however vaguely. What the US got was that the Federation would continue to expand to any nation willing to join for the support, as being united under one flag seemed to work for the Americans. What they didn't understand, however, was that the Federation wouldn't be afraid to expand by force if the resources involved were necessary to the state's survival.

"And so, the infamous plan was devised, and it all centered around the American satellite ODIN, and its ultimate destructive power. As the United States and its allies grew more dependent on our resources, we became a resource to them that they could not lose. So, if we turned against the United States, how would the rest of NATO react? Would they help to save the crippled country that had literally no use to them anymore without being a superpower? Or would they stand aside to make sure that they wouldn't lose their resource in the Federation?

"Politicians are crooked, and you know the turnout of the situation if you're still standing here, ten years later. They abandoned the former superpower as it fell apart, and was invaded by their new 'ally'. Now, an explanation of that term. The members of NATO are not supporting the Federation in a military effort, but they stay out of our way in exchange for the support that they need. Which, in the end, is a good tradeoff for both sides.

"And so, after the United States provided a significant amount of resistance, the Federation began a new plan. The plan of hijacking the ODIN satellite had worked so well, they could reverse-engineer it to make their own satellite, and use that to their advantage. So then came Loki, and the hijinks that you and your Ghost friends created. The plan was to use Loki to take out the remains of the United States military, to finish the job. And that didn't end the way we planned, obviously."

Rorke stops talking, putting the book down. I guess he was reading and adding his own commentary, more likely skimming over what the book had covered and helping me understand it. I understood it, but I still thought that they were pretty twisted to try to do the same damage again. "So, where does that bring us now?" he asks me.

I shrug, not knowing where he's going with all this. Obviously there's a point, but I'm not picking up on it. He explained what he did, and I get the information. But what picture does this paint, what does that imply?

"The Federation's next course of action will be similar to our old one, familiar because of the style of warfare involved. Guerilla warfare, to be specific, and we're forming it now. Chapter Seven, it will be called, our version of the Ghosts. You and I, we're gonna lead it. And we're going to take out the Ghosts, and then make sure that we can either attempt to reverse engineer the space station once more from Loki's wreckage, which we're sending men to retrieve from its crash site in Canada, as well as taking out every single person who will dramatically aid the United States in rebounding again," he explains to me, nodding to assure himself. "You'll make a hell of a leader, Logan."

I sit there and stew this over for a moment, while Rorke looks on, watching me in my trance. He is going to build me in _his_ own image, much like the Federation built him in their own image to hunt down the Ghosts. And now they're going to use me to finish the job, and do so much more.

"I'm not gonna turn against my own country," I tell Rorke firmly, staring back at him in seething anger as my realization continues to dawn on me. "I'm a patriot, and I always will be. I'm a quiet patriot, though, and you won't break me. Ever." And right there, I close my mouth and watch him, waiting for his reaction. I'm silent, I remember, and I will stay silent if their only intention is to make me a monster.

"You'll break, Logan," Rorke says, biting his lip. "It will take a week, or two, or a month or two, but you will break. And you will help me." He stops, biting his lip. "If there's one thing you're right about, Logan, it is that I'm a monster. Nothing will stop me, unless I see a better option. And that makes me relentless, like you see me here now."

This seems like the closing point of the conversation, and indeed, Rorke picks up a phone that was on his belt and says something in Spanish into it. I assume it's him ordering for me to taken away to wherever I'm going; either back to the pit, or some even more brutal torture.

"Rorke, what made you so efficient?" I question, glaring at him. He puts the phone down and watches me, biting his lip again. It is chewed raw, I realize, which means it must be his bad habit. When his lips move, though, that gnarly, nasty voice snakes back out.

"I work out of anger, and anger is the greatest fuel for someone whose job is to orchestrate killing. It's anger at your father, at Merrick and Keegan, at the whole of the Ghost system for leaving me behind to die, when I could have been saved. It showed that you and your United States friends didn't care for a soldier, even the man that led them," he spits, his eyes cold and hard, his tone threatening. "You can't break away an anger as deep as mine."

"Why not?"

"Because, Logan, when a spark is lit, it runs a fuel. Until that fuel runs out, the fire will keep burning," he says, stopping to think for a moment. "And the fuel for me is the memory of what happened that day, and all the reasons on why it shouldn't have happened that I've learned over my years here. That, and the knowledge of the truth about the Federation and the Ghosts."

"What truth?" I ask back, angry that he's implying there's something wrong with the Ghosts. "What do I not know?"

Rorke's anger, though, seems to fade away, and he folds the book closed and taps his finger against the desk absent-mindedly. "The truth about war, Logan. I'll teach you it. And you'll begin to hate the Ghosts too," he mutters begrudgingly.

Suddenly, the door opens, and two men in Federation uniforms enter the room. One of them elbows the back of my head, and I fly into the desk and bounce back up into the arms of the two men. They pull me away, dragging me on my back, as I slowly lose consciousness. As I pass through the door frame, the pain in my head and my injured arm numbing, I see Rorke looking on, almost displeased that I am being tortured, but then draws a blank stare and looks away. His dark, hard, and pained face is the last thing I see before my world goes black.

_July 12__th__, 12:09:24_

I don't remember much from the other day after my early confrontation with Rorke. I remember pain. Lots of pain, in many different forms. Beating, and drowning, and burning. I remember fear, as well. Fear of the men who dragged me around their chambers, torturing me in one room, bringing my injured and frail body helplessly to the next room and doing something different there. I was hopelessly afraid, and the black ink dreams continued to paint themselves in my head whenever I fell asleep, which usually came because of either being knocked out or just passing out myself.

Most of all, though, I remember a pain in my stomach. That's what I feel now; a constant, throbbing pain from the poison in my food. They give me the same food for every meal: a canvas of water and a baloney sandwich, lower down into my pit through a short rope that weaves its way around the bamboo cage top and then down. They untie it and bring it away after I've taken my food, so I can't use it to either escape or hang myself. Not that I would do either. I can't let them break me, and I have to make it through this so that I can survive.

All of the food, however, is laced with the poisons of the fruits of the Amazon. I don't know how they're implanted in my sandwich or mixed so perfectly into my water, but it's impossible to tell they are there except for the aftereffects. The poisons don't taste like anything either, so I don't feel anything until those effects. But the pain makes up for lost time.

Once the food works its way into my stomach, it seems to explode with poison, making my throat taste like fire and my stomach throb. It's the most intense pain that I've ever felt, worse than being shot because it is constantly awful. When you're shot, there's a split second of extreme pain and then a slow, coursing, stinging pain from the wound. This, though, it burns and throbs like hell, nothing like I've ever dealt with before.

I can see why this broke Rorke, who is strong, but I will myself not to break. If he was manipulated, it wasn't from the pain, he insists. It was from the knowledge of the truth that he speaks of, the truth that he'll teach me. I haven't seen him since our encounter three days before, so I don't know anything else about what he has in store for me.

This morning, early, they brought me out of my pit, and did the same routine as always. They wash me off from the mud that gets on me from my 'bed', give me new clothes, and then torture me. Today, though, the soldiers stopped early, and have brought me to this empty room, with a projector hanging from the ceiling, pointed at a wall. There's a single, black metal chair in the center of the room, where I now sit, as well as a locked door behind me. And, if I forgot to mention, cameras on every corner of the room to observe me.

On the projector is a purely white screen, which I watch attentively to see if I notice any differences. All of a sudden, it changes to the Federation flag, and then to a full color image of a middle-aged man, staring at the camera while wearing a nervous look. He looks Hispanic, so I assume that he's some sort of Federation leader.

"Hello, family, friends, and soldiers of the South American Federation," he says, an obvious Brazilian accent drifting through the projector. "I am Chancellor Suarez, as you know, and I'm here to address an unfortunate issue for a great nation. That issue, of course, is the mass flooding of Cacarus."

He pauses, his eyes moving quickly, and it is suddenly obvious that he is reading off a script. Typical politician. "As you have probably heard by now, the city of Cacarus was attacked by United States forces in an effort to assassinate General Almagro, to which they **succeeded**. This was done because they believe his military actions come across as hostile to our neighbors to the north, and they were threatened by his presence.

"The government of our Federation has addressed this issue, and has gone over detailed refinement of his plans for expansion economically and militaristically for our nation. In light of the attack, we will also focus on rebuilding a ruined and decimated city, which sits under thirty feet of water thanks to the collapse of the dam in the mountains near Cacarus.

"Strictly to the leaders of the United States, we have no issue with you finding a problem with General Almagro's policies," Chancellor Suarez says to the camera, his tone suddenly becoming darker and colder than before. "We could have discussed this formally should you have seen the need for a change in his procedures. However, you decided to take him out with violence and the devastation of our great city. This will not go unpunished. For now, we will continue treaty talks so your government can supply us with the means necessary to rebuild after your damage. Should you fail to do this, however, and this could turn into a bloody and even more devastating war."

Chancellor Suarez stops, lets this sink in, and then continues. "All survivors that are still stranded in Cacarus, please make it to the rooftops and use any means necessary to make yourself known to evacuation teams. Please use caution, however, as American ground forces may remain in the city. Any air and armored presence has been dismissed, but stay away from anything suspicious which may lead to an American foot soldier. If you are brought to safety, please notify officials of anything that concerned you. Thank you, and peace be with you all."

The video ends abruptly, cutting back to the white screen. I understand what I just watched, but I don't understand why. This must be the beginning of Rorke's 'lessons'. My theory is confirmed, then when Rorke's face appears on the projector, staring at me. I stare back, lifting my chin up to assert myself.

"I hope you enjoyed the presentation," he says, watching me with interest. "That was broadcast publicly four hours after the dam broke outside of Cacarus, which flooded the city."

"Do you believe him?" I say, in disbelief. "You were there, weren't you? In the video, Suarez blamed the US for blowing up the dam when it was Almagro's decision!"

Rorke, instead of telling me to shut up or being angry at my deliberate response, begins to laugh. He laughs for a little bit before stopping, and between breaths, answers me. "Of course I know that it was his order! It was simply a mistake, by their intelligence, unless, which is the more likely theory, there were some favorites being played. Blame the other guys, right?"

That makes sense, I figure, but then what is the point of showing me that video? Rorke, of course, seems to read my mind to figure out my question. "This is an important clip because it shows the Federation public's side to the aftermath of the devastation in Cacarus, as well as my closing hours as a Ghost. That last part was merely added in so that they could, hopefully, find me if I remained in the city. Not many Americans got out that day, you see, and your father was one of the lucky few," he explains.

"If you'll follow that guard upstairs, I'll tell you something in person," he continues, and then the projector turns off as the door behind me opens. A Federation soldier stands, gun in hand, and waves me out of the room. I follow him, his gun trained on me from behind his shoulder, and eventually he leads me up a long flight of stairs.

Once we reach the top, he lets me walk in front of him just so he can push me out the door that exits the stairwell. The impact hurts, especially since it was my injured, casted arm that hit the metal door. He doesn't care for obvious reasons, but I open the door and find myself in sunlight for the first time in what seems like forever. I get to torture building tired and early in the morning, before the sun comes up, and go back once the sun has set and I'm too beaten up to actually notice anything.

Rorke stands about ten yards away, flanked by two guards on either side. He holds the same phone he had the other day, and watches the trees around the complex that we're on the roof of with interest. There are rainforest birds cawing and chirping, flying around in magnificent arrays of color. "The day that the dam broke through in Cacarus was the dawn of a new era for the Federation," he says, turning to face me as I walk towards him, the guard behind me keeping the barrel of his gun prodded against my back.

"It began the two-year long buildup to the hijacking of the ODIN satellite," he explains with charm, watching me as I stop in front of him, surrounded by Federation cronies. "Today begins a new era, an era of the Federation working towards another satellite to end everything. And I wanted you to see, at least as well as you could, the beginning of it."

He stops and presses a few buttons on his phone, and then waits. He then puts it to his ear. "Mahogany 9-1, do you read? This is Fortress, do you copy? Yes, Mahogany, orders are confirmed. Orders are as follows, Juliet Omega 6-79-01. Proceed with mission. Fortress out."

He puts the phone away and stands for a moment, thinking. "When all is said and done, Logan, I don't think I'll be remembered as the man who killed Ghosts, or even made them the force that they are. I'll be remembered as the man who captured you and made you the greatest soldier this world has ever come to know," he thinks, smiling crudely. "They call me the Ghost Killer. More like the Ghost Captor, wouldn't you say?"

I stand silently, wondering what he just ordered. An attack on an American base, or worse? Whatever it is, I pray that it doesn't affect Hesh or Merrick or Keegan. Please, don't kill my friends, Rorke. I'll do what you want, but don't kill them.

"I think our friend Logan has had a rough enough day," Rorke comments, whistling in agreement with himself. "Why don't you boys give him his lunch and then leave him alone in his pit for the rest of the day, don't you think?"

One of the soldiers pushes me towards the stairwell door, and I take one last look at the sun before I reenter the building. I know that food means poison, and poison means pain, so he has just ordered me to be escorted to hell. Rorke doesn't seem to care, though, his hands in his pockets, watching the birds of the Amazon fly around. I glare at him as I pass through the doorway, and then venture towards another hell that awaits me.

**Why how suspenseful. There's our little taste of Logan for now, I suppose; he's going to enter a kind of cycle at this facility, so we won't visit him until it's almost complete. But there's his stance, and Rorke's attitude about the whole situation, which I figured was important for you guys to see. In the end, it's just more talking, but at least it is slightly more interesting. Don't worry, next chapter we'll begin to get the good stuff! :D**

**Now that you've read that, I assume that you understand that both Logan and Hesh will be leading all-star squads of characters from their respective armies in the Ghosts and Chapter Seven. Well, here's your chance to really aid the story! That's right an OC contest!**

**Think of all the mayhem that I've just sparked. XD Just some general rules before you submit: your odds will probably be better if you're as descriptive as possible. A name and body aren't going to cut it. Try to include emotional scars, histories, personalities, and tendencies for a better chance. Also, please don't write a review that's just an entry. Please offer something else helpful, such as constructive criticism, before your entry to the contest. I appreciate it, but please keep it to thoughtful reviews and PMs please. Finally, please don't ask for the character to be used in this way or be in that faction. I'll decide where the winning characters will go that will best aid the flow of the story.**

**The contest will be open for a short while, maybe like three to five chapters, so make sure that you get them in quick! There will be four total winners; two that are in Hesh's squad, two in Logan's. And, just an FYI, just because Logan's characters are Federation doesn't mean that they have to be Brazilian or Venezuelan names. There's always a background to a character, which I have for the two Federation winners, so don't hassle yourself with looking up similar names to Vinicus and Liuz. XD**

**I hope to see the continued support and entries, but for now, I think I'm done. Thanks guys, and I'll see you next time!**


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